


fever, chills, fatigue

by etben



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21654427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/pseuds/etben
Summary: “Okay,” Patrick says, the second time he throws up.  “Okay,maybeI’m sick.”
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 47
Kudos: 430





	fever, chills, fatigue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/gifts).



> Content warning for offscreen vomiting.

“Okay,” Patrick says, the second time he throws up. “Okay, _maybe_ I’m sick.”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” David says. “You’re too sick to appreciate it.” His voice is tart but his hands are gentle, so gentle, cool and firm against Patrick’s forehead. “Are we done here?”

Patrick sits back, resting his shoulders against David’s knees, and evaluates. “I think I’m good,” he says cautiously. “Honestly, I don’t think I have anything left to throw up at this point.”

“I’ve heard that before,” David says, “right before the youngest Jonas brother puked on my shoes.” He runs his fingers through Patrick’s hair, easy and soothing. “So let’s hope you don’t follow in Frankie’s footsteps.”

“Why—” Patrick frowns, trying to follow the story. It hurts to frown, to think, to do anything at all; he shuts his eyes. “Why were you hanging around with the Bonus Jonas?”

“Um, excuse me, I think a more pertinent question here is why _you_ —” David cuts himself off, shaking his head. “We’ll address your shocking familiarity with lesser-known members of the Jonas clan later,” he says. “You think you can stand up?”

“Sure,” Patrick says. “Totally.”

“Let me rephrase that,” David says, as the seconds tick by and Patrick utterly fails to move. “Do you think you can stand up right now? If I help you?” He doesn’t wait for a response, just slides his hands under Patrick’s arms and begins tugging him gently upwards.

David is so strong, is the thing. Patrick doesn’t always notice it, doesn’t always think about it, because he’s also so soft and delicate and lovely, but David’s a big guy under those fluffy sweaters, with a corresponding amount of muscle. He has broad shoulders, strong hands, _amazing_ thighs—he hides it well, but he’s completely capable of holding Patrick down and fucking him until he cries.

“—Not that this isn’t flattering,” David says, “but I’d really rather wait until you aren’t a plague vector before I do that.” He leans in and brushes a kiss against Patrick’s temple in apology, and hey, Patrick’s standing up now, that’s pretty good.

“You’re batting a touchdown,” David tells him, and that’s—it’s not right but Patrick can’t make his brain work long enough to figure out what the correct words are. “Come on, turn around, there we go, and now you’re going to walk over and sit on this nice bed while I find you some clean pajamas.” 

Patrick is over on the bed without fully understanding the processes that brought him there, staring blankly at the knee of his jeans while David does something over by the dresser. Now that his stomach seems to have subsided, he’s slowly becoming aware of all of the parts of his body, each one uncomfortable in a slightly different way. His back aches, his head is throbbing, he’s sweaty and vaguely dizzy and—

“I’m disgusting,” he says.

“You are,” David agrees, suddenly back in front of Patrick. His hands are full of the familiar flannel of Patrick’s warmest pajama pants, which he sets on the bed. “Hence the change of clothes.”

“No, I’m—” Patrick frowns, trying to think around the haze of illness and just general ick. “I’m gross, and you’re wearing—” something soft, one of the fibers that can’t go in the washing machine, Patrick knows what it is but he can’t find the words. “You shouldn’t touch me when you’re wearing that.”

“Mmmm,” David says, already kneeling between Patrick’s feet. “And if this were the 2016 Balenciaga, you might have a point, but honestly, between the two of us, I was never really sold on the 2014 collection.” He pulls Patrick’s shoes off, reaches up and undoes the zipper of his jeans. “Okay, just lean on me for a—that’s it, exactly,” he says, sliding the jeans down as Patrick wobbles, his hands braced on David’s shoulders. “And frankly, a little sweat would have done the 2011 collection a world of good.”

David keeps up a steady flow of encouragement and fashion commentary and soft, deft hands; before Patrick has time to reformulate his argument, he finds himself tucked into bed, wrapped in flannel and fleece and a pair of ludicrously soft socks, not to mention every blanket he owns.

“Are these _my_ socks?” Patrick asks, wiggling his toes. The socks are _really_ soft. Next to him on the bed, David chuckles.

“Well, they weren’t going to be your socks _yet_ ,” he says, “but I figured you wouldn’t mind getting part of your Christmas present a few weeks early.” There’s a knock at the door, and Patrick starts to sit up, but David shushes him back down into bed. “No, that’s just Stevie, remember? I asked her to get you something for your stomach?”

“I mean, you assume it’s me,” Stevie says, stepping into Patrick’s bedroom. “I could be an axe murderer.”

“Are you an axe murderer who brought ginger ale and saltines?” Stevie holds up the bags. “Yeah,” David says, “I officially don’t care about your hobbies, sorry.”

“Fair enough,” Stevie says. She steps forward to hand the bags over to David, frowning down at Patrick. “Damn, he looks like shit.”

“Hence the sick day tomorrow,” David agrees. “And probably Thursday, too.”

“I’m not _that_ sick,” Patrick protests, but Stevie and David just give him twin incredulous looks and turn back to each other, ignoring him.

“And you’re good to cover the store for a few hours tomorrow morning?” David opens the ginger ale and sinks down onto the bed next to Patrick’s head. “Here, drink some of this,” he says, helping Patrick sit up in bed, steadying his hands until he can take the can. “You know about the, the thing with the cash, fuck, the whatsit—with the little key?”

“The Z report,” Patrick says, leaning heavily against David’s shoulder and taking a shaky drink of ginger ale. It feels good, crisp and fresh and cool in his mouth. “And you can do it, David, Stevie doesn’t have to worry.”

“Have a saltine,” David says, swapping the can in Patrick’s hands out for a plastic sleeve of crackers. “Oh, and Mrs Duchamp should be coming by with the order of candles, but you can just put those in the back, we’ll deal with them later.”

“You can put the candles out,” Patrick says, the words garbled around a mouthful of crackers. “You had that whole display planned out, you don’t need to wait for me to be back.” There’s a pause, long enough that Patrick blinks his eyes back open—when did he close them?—to see David and Stevie staring at him. Stevie looks like she always does: like she’s about ten seconds from rolling her eyes at him and cussing him out, but in a nice way.

David, though. David is smiling at him, this tiny sweet smile, just the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he can’t believe how happy he is, like he wants to keep it a secret but can’t help sharing with Patrick.

“I’ll be here,” David says, running his hand through Patrick’s disgusting hair. “With you.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] fever, chills, fatigue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24047770) by [sunlightsymphony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunlightsymphony/pseuds/sunlightsymphony)




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